


Menace

by yukiawison



Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 10:28:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2544212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yukiawison/pseuds/yukiawison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They said Spot Conlon was a menace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Menace

They said Spot Conlon was a menace. He’d ruled the streets of Brooklyn long before anyone had heard of Jack Kelly. Spot was someone to be feared, a newsie you didn’t want on your bad side. His turf was his home, and anyone caught trespassing got what was coming to them. His Brooklyn gang dominated in sales, serving up any headline The World or Journal could dish out.

  
Racetrack Higgins had never met the infamous Spot Conlon. He didn’t really want to either. All Brooklyn boys were the same, no matter how tough they made themselves out to be. This Spot Conlon all the guys talked about was nothing but another stupid kid.  
* * * *  
It was a bad selling day, bad enough for Race to venture out into Spot’s territory. “Extra extra read all about it! ” He crowed. Carriages and people hurried past, hardly looking up.

“Buy a damn pape,” he muttered under his breath. Eventually he gave in and slid down a back alley, heading for the lodging house.

  
"Think you can mess with us shrimp?" The boy growled, punching whoever the other two punks were holding.

  
"Hey assholes. Whatdaya think you’re doin?" He asked coolly. The kid in charge turned, scowling.  
"Who the hell are you?"

  
He smiled. “They call me Racetrack, jackass, now let the kid go.”

  
"Make me," the guy smirked, turning back to the beaten up kid who was currently coughing his guts out onto the pavement.

  
”Last chance,” Racetrack said passively, rolling up his sleeves and throwing down his remaining papes.

  
The guys were still laughing when Race punched the first one in the nose. He followed up with a blow to the ribs that sent the other two running.  
"Scram," he snarled, at the cocky jerk at his feet. He stumbled off, muttering curses and groaning.

  
"Hey you alright?" The boy was slumped against the brick wall, his face shadowed in the dark. He coughed some more, putting a hand to his blood stained plaid shirt.

  
"What’s it to ya?

  
"Excuse me?"

  
"I can fight my own battles buddy," The boy said, rising wearily to his full height (which wasn’t very tall.)

  
"Sure looked that way," he shot back sarcastically.

  
The other boy took a step closer, his bruised eye and cut lip clearly visible now.

  
"You dunno who you’re talkin ta do ya?"

  
"Who am I talkin ta kid?"

  
He scowled. “You’re one of Kelly’s kids ain’t ya? Name’s Spot Conlon, ever heard a me?”

  
"You’re Spot Conlon?"

  
He nodded, rolling his shoulders back confidently. Somehow he still looked fearsome even after Race had clearly seen him bloody on the pavement.  
"What, I don’t look like ya thought I would?"

  
"All the newsies are afraid of you?" Racetrack asked, dumbfounded.

  
"Yeah, with good reason too, now get off my turf," he had a peculiar glint in his eye, a spark present despite the blood dripping down his temple, and Racetrack understood why people feared this Spot Conlon.

  
"Fine, but don’t count on me if you're ever in a jam again." He set off down the alley, cheeks burning in anger. He didn’t turn around to look after him until Spot was nearly out of sight. He could see him limping down the alley, steps still strong.  
* * * *  
"What do I care? We ain’t a union or nothin. I ain’t your boss," Jack said, irritated.

  
"But Jack Kelly, there’s no order without Spot. He sells more papes than any of us and we dunno how ta divide up the street without…"  
"Sorry kid, not my fault Brooklyn’s full of morons."

  
"What’s goin on?" Race asked, slinging a stack of papers over his shoulder.

  
"Spot Conlon’s sick. No one’s seen him sellin papes for days.

  
"Where is he?"

  
Jack looked at him curiously. “The lodge house up on 4th street. Why?”

  
"No reason."  
* * * *  
Leave the Brooklyn bastard be huh? Then why was he here?

  
"Manhattan kid ta see ya Spot!" The boy who let him in left him standing awkwardly by the famed newsie’s door.

  
"Come in," came a weak voice.

  
"Oh it’s you," he was propped up in the bottom bunk of one of the many lodge house beds.

  
"Well you look even more awful than before."

He smirked, still bruised, with a lip that was healing. Except he was a lot paler.

"So what are you doin here…Racetrack was it?"

  
"Yeah, well your guys are pretty lost without ya, thought I might be of some help."  
He sighed. “What’s the headline?”

  
"Uh, Trolly workers get pay cuts, strike in sight."

  
"Alright, give Dash and Kicks 7th and 8th, right near the station. Split Bay Avenue between…"

  
"Wait what? Ya think that much about it?"

  
"Well yeah, ya don’t?"  
"Naw, I usually take Central Park, or anywhere else I’ve got a good chance."

  
Spot shrugged. “I guess that’s the difference between you and I.”

  
"Well that and I can fight."

  
"Shut up!" He lunged forward, fists clenched. Race easily pushed his shoulders back, laying him back on the pillow gently.

  
"I could soak ya if I…" he coughed, eyelids fluttering. Race smiled, Spot was actually kind of cute when he wasn’t yelling at him.

  
"I know ya could," Racetrack said gently. "I’m sorry."

  
“‘S okay,” he replied with a yawn. He rubbed his eyes before sitting up straight.

  
"Gimme some paper, I’ll write down what ta tell the guys."

  
"Sure thing." He pulled a crumpled receipt from his pocket and handed it to Spot, who already had a pen. Their fingers brushed, and something compelled Race to lean in and kiss him.

"Shit, I…" Spot seemed to be stunned into silence. "Dammit you just looked like you needed…I dunno I…"

  
"It’s okay," he interrupted, face flushed.

  
"What?"  
"Don’t stand there like an idiot. I liked it, it’s okay."

  
"Oh, okay then…"

Spot kissed him back cautiously. “Here’s the list. I’ll see you round huh Racetrack?”

  
"Yeah, um, feel better."

  
"Thanks."  
* * * *  
"All them Brooklyn boys are tha same right Race? We don’t need them for tha strike."

  
Race looked up from his paper. “Most of them Brooklyn suckers don’t know right from left, but that Spot Conlon, he’s a menace,” he grinned.


End file.
